Crossroads: Frozen Mirrors Blues
by castielapplepie
Summary: UsUk. "I used to love someone once. And it was magical, uplifting and utterly terrifying," Arthur confessed with a small smile gracing his lips. Meet Arthur Kirkland: young, wealthy and heartbroken beyond repair. Shuffling between old memories and every day struggle, fate decides to give him another chance. Only that this time, it's not as sweet as before.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

_"Why does the caged bird sing...?"_

* * *

><p>The smell of burnt flesh, petroleum and chlorine is filling the air, making it impossible to be inhaled. It's infiltrating everywhere, from the already dead plants to the narrow spaces between the monstrous tall skyscrapers that disappear in the dark of the night. There is no moon, only thick clouds filled with deadly pollutants wander the pitch black sky. Stray hounds are wondering the cemented black streets, with their noses in the radioactive air, searching for something. Their bodies are enormous, covered by long black fur, their claws are long, sharp and efficient in skinning their victims <em>alive<em>. Their fangs are ripping the meat of a no longer stray cat they have just hunted. They are circling their dead prey in the middle of the street and no one one bothers to interrupt them. One of them, the strongest, the biggest and the most ferocious, raises its head and lets a long howl escape its throat. The blue neon lights of the buildings seem to pulsate through the dense fog that covers the first five or seven meters from the ground up to the sky. The few trees, that are on the wide street, have no leaves and their branches look like huge hands that are waiting for someone to pass by and grab them by their coat and eat them, torture them to death.

Only a few shops are opened, one or two at the gas stop, the rest are spread across the city. No one dares to wander the streets, except for the homeless; they are always there, between the blocks of glass, watching. Watching with their hungry eyes; forms clothed in multiple kinds of togs, patched and over-patched. They never beg, they barely speak, but once they get their hands on your wallet, you are bound to give up on it. Their mean, selfish and dirty hands never give anything back.

A black sport car is the only thing disturbs the stillness of the city with its powerful engine roaring through the dense fog. It stops in the middle of the street, where the hounds are dinning, causing them to run away, leaving the cat or what has remained of it there. The driver's door opens and a foot clothed in dark trousers and polished black shoes emerge. Then the driver is completely outside of his expensive car, closing the door with one hand carelessly. His steps are firm, slow and well-calculated, almost flawless.

He stops, without taking his hands out of his warm pockets, as if waiting for something to happen. The next second, he finds himself surrounded by twenty or thirty other people that seem to have appeared out of thin air. One of them steps out of the crowd and reveals his face by pulling off his hood.

"**Give up,**" he says- his words soft, low, but demanding and dead serious. His features are relaxed, matching his expensive outfit. At this, the other man, starts laughing hysterically, filling the neighbourhood with his loud obnoxious laughter.

"That was a good joke, Braginski," he mocks between pants and tears. Said Braginski puffs disgusted and points at his opponent.

"You could've surrendered yourself, idiot. You could've lived a peaceful life under my care, yet you choose to rebel against me," he shakes his head, his lila eyes almost sparkling with disappointment. Almost."I don't get you," his Russian accent is strong, his voice is filled with anger and any trace of weakness is now gone. "Get him!" he commands.

His lips curl in a sly grin before Braginski's people attack..

**_To be continued..._**


	2. Chapter 2

**FROZEN MIRRORS BLUES**

**Chapter 1**

**Part 1**

**Black hair and cigarettes**

_"If I tell you I miss you, would that change anything?"- E.B._**  
><strong>

* * *

><p>A loud thunder echoes through London. It was getting dark and the rain is falling heavily on the rooftop of Kirkland Co. It is past 7 PM and only a few workers are left in the tall building, each moment that passes deepens the dark circles under their eyes, adds a few more wrinkles on their no longer smooth skin. The clock on my desk seems to tick slowly, painfully slow, if you ask me. I sigh, running a hand through my hair, closing my eyes in the meanwhile. I guess it's time for me to go home.<p>

My name is Arthur Kirkland and I am 23 year old. My hair is short, messy and blond, but whenever I am at work, I slick it back in order to gain a more professional appearance. My eyes are big, cat-like and lime-green iris surrounds my pitch black pupils. I am neither tall, nor short, one could say that I am average. Also, I am not the muscular type of guy and when I have been younger people often mistook me for a girl. That is...until went full punk, with piercings, tattoos and hair dyed in blue, green and other unnatural colours that definitely made me stand out. Kirkland Co. has been under my care ever since I got nineteen, but not too long ago it belonged to my step-father. I never wished to be a business man, but Kirkland senior had other plans prepared for me and I ended up like this.

8PM, already. I stand up abruptly after turning off the laptop. I am the last person left in the huge building and outside is miserable. Taking my trench coat and my umbrella, I leave the office heading to the lift. It takes a while for me to reach the ground floor, but eventually the lift goes ding and the metallic doors part wide open. The guards mumble a half-heartedly, obviously tired _good evening, sir!_ to which I respond by nodding my head before stepping outside, in the heavy rain. My newly polished black shoes are splashing through the cold puddles as I am crossing the street towards my car- a decent Mini Cooper, an excellent British car, dare I say. My brother, Scott, is always rolling his eyes when he is talking about my car. I don't get why he does it. We were both Brits...

I slip into the car and look around. I am a rain-lover. Some would think it's because of my being British and stuff, but, in fact, it has nothing to do with this. The relatively big water droplets are pelting down the dark streets of London. What a dark night this is! Surely, nights are supposed to be dark, but there are different shades of darkness. This one is one that always makes me feel uncomfortable.

As I said earlier, I love rain. The cool fresh air, the grey gloomy sky, the scent of cooled streets and earth and the way the water droplets loudly kick my umbrella, the rooftops, the streets and the city- all these little things put me at ease whenever they are present. But thunderstorms...they are something completely different. Only bad and strange things can come out of a stormy night.

When I was a kid, I used to live in Humble-le-Rice, a coastal village in the Borough of Eastleigh in Hampshire, with my mother and my father. I was born there and our family seemed to be an ordinary family. That was, of course, until my father died. I was only four years old and I can barely remember him. My mum rarely spoke of him and I had never asked after seeing her pained look. We lived there for a while, but my mum was getting sadder and sadder by each month that passed. She started painting out of the blue in a stormy night and it didn't take too long for her to become famous. At first, our neighbours were the ones who requested her paintings, but soon enough rich men and women called from London. Unbelievable, huh? That's what I thought back then.

At the age of ten I was already trying to survive in London in a shitty cramped flat in a quite infamous area. One would believe that once they call you and request your presence in London, you wouldn't have to put up with a hasty-nasty life style. But, boy, one can be wrong! Through stolen wallets and phones, we managed for almost two years until mum got a more satisfying salary. After that, we moved to a safer neighbourhood.

By the time I reached fifteen, my mum got quite famous and we didn't have to worry about money anymore. Usually, now, one would spend their earnings shallowy, but my mom was smarter than that. She understood that she needed to start saving up money for any future occurance. So she started working at a cafe too, as a part-timer. She barely had time for anything, so I started doing the house chores to help her a bit. I had never been the kind of kid who'd seek for attention, but our family -or what remained of it- was far from normal and I turned into an introvert by the time I had signed up for high school.

I used to move around a lot, therefore I had no friends. Not to mention that usually the hobbies I had didn't match with their hobbies. In their eyes I'd always been the smart silent student with a rich mum, nothing more. That's how it had been for a while, until karma or fate or whatever decided to change that and shove me in a different direction. All I needed was a small push, I took care of the rest.

Still fifteen -although almost sixteen-, I was having a heated fight with four huge bullies in the boy's bathroom. Or more likely they were beating me, because I couldn't hurt a fly. Sure, this happened gradually. First, it was the name calling and seeing that I paid no attention to it, they felt neglected they upgraded their teasing technique and started to pull pranks on me. One thing led to another and my four bullies- yes, _my_ because by that time I was already used to them- took it to a whole new level and started beating me. But I never said anything. I'd always been a prideful bastard, as they called me, and I would have never allowed myself to cry in front of anyone.

So it was a usual day, with beating starring as lunch and classmates ignoring my very existence- I remember that once a guy sat on me because he didn't see me or so he said- personally I think he'd done it on a purpose. It was a rainy autumn day and I was dragging my feet through a mass of multicoloured umbrellas just maybe, maybe I could cease to exist on my way home. Although a rather small umbrella was resting at the pit of my backpack, I didn't feel like pulling it out and _actually _use it. Hell, I was walking impossibly slow and somewhere, in the back of my mind, I must admit that I was waiting for a miracle to happen. Honestly, I needed something- _anything-_ just to distract me and make me feel better. And it happened. Although I wasn't meant to find out right on the spot, but it happened.

A mop of blue hair caught my attention. The guy was huge, seriously, I remember myself comparing him to a tree back then. His skin was tanned and he was wearing a leather jacket that was obviously huge for his slender figure, but he looked pretty much relaxed while leaning on the wall of a brown brick house. He was accompanied by a guy with with spiky white hair and extremely pale skin, a pair of sunglasses was sheltering his gaze from the world, although, as I said, it _was_ raining. Next to them there was another tanned man, this one even more tanned than the bluenette. He had slightly curled hair that reached his shoulders, the ebony curls were tied loosely at the base of his neck. There was also another guy with light brown hair and also unnaturaly pale skin, accompanied by two pools of crimson that were supposed to be his eyes, but, blimey, his eyes were huge! One of his fangs stubbornly refused to stay fully in his mouth. The only things they had in common was their black-reddish outfits and mysterious bad-boy kind of aura and I had felt myself being drawn to them, unwillingly and obliviously to my younger stupid self.

The blue haired one was the first to talk to me and I was about to find out that he was going to be among those persons that could annoy the shit out of me just by talking. They were all staying under a mini-roof, on an alley squished between two three-floored brick houses. The tanned one seemed to have a passionate affair with his cigarette as his green eyes lazily followed the smoke-circles that were leaving his mouth one by one and were fading slowly in the cold humid air. The pale one was distracting the blonde as the poor guy unsuccesfully tried to play Angry Birds. And, of course, there was the bluenette that was shamelessly staring at me with his big blue eyes as I passed by on my way home. And you could say that I was hardly hurrying to get to my place. Blimey, I think even a snail could move faster. The reason was quite simple, actually. You see, it was the first time mum had invited a guy, Phil, for dinner. Let's just say I wasn't eager to meet him. Or to go home for that matter.

The bluenette stepped out in the rain, pulling out one of his earbuds and placing his hand on my shoulder, stopping me from my painfully slow march to my flat.

"Quite a weather, isn't it, lil' dude?" he asked grinning like an idiot, probably also trying to intimadate me. Oh, bloody hell, he succeeded. Not that I had admited back then, anyway. I nodded and tried to continue my walk. It seemed that he was having none ofthat, for his long fingers dug into my flesh painfully, nailing me to the street; his grip even managed to make me turn myself to face him. _Good Lord, will he beat me too? _was the thought that had instantly crossed my mind. _I am royally fucked. He's, like, huge. _I looked at my drenched converse waiting for my punishment, but the punch never came. Instead of that, he grabbed my chin and gently forced me to look up at the tall idiot. "I wasn't goin' to hitcha, y'know?" he told me, his eyebrows uniting in a pityful manner as his voice was either disgusted or sad. I, for one, couldn't tell.

"I-I'm sorry," I managed to mumble, clearly embarrassed by my previous obvious thoughts, but was I really one to blame? Getting hit was like my daily lunch and although I had my meal almost an hour before, that couldn't mean that it was impossible for it to become a dessert too. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go home." Once again, his grip canceled my plans.

"Now, dude..." his thick American accent made me want to strangle the soul out of him. _Right, Arthur, blame it on the accent, we both know that his grin and stupid height is what ticks you off. _I think that could have been my conscience back then. "...it ain't like you're hurrying home, right? Why not hang out with us a lil'?" My eyebrow twitched.

"Firstly, you do not say 'ain't', but 'isn't'. Secondly, you do **not **say lil', but little. Thirdly, the pace I choose to walk is _my _business. And fourthly and possibly the last point I have to make, it would be veery stupid and not to mention stupid of me to hang out with people I don't even bloody know!" I snapped and I guess that's what made the blue haired one to laugh. Suddenly, I felt an imense urge to punch him. Lucky me I hadn't done that.

"Guys, he even said 'bloody'," he tried copying my accent, but failed miserably," that's, like, so British!" I turned my back at him with the clear intention of leaving, but hell, he could be insistent. "Woa, woa, dude! Hold on!" It only took him a step or two to catch up with me. Fuck him and his huge legs. Surely, I tried to shove him off, but in vain. "Sorry, man, I just can't get used to it. You British people are so funny!" That was it. I was going to punch him. I glared at him forcefully and attempted to throw a punch at his face, only to be stopped in the middle of it. The tall tanned guy stopped me and let's just say that his gaze wasn't exactly _'friendly'. _

"Touch him and you die, amigo!" he growled painfully close to my ear in a low threatening voice as his fingers sunk in my skin. What was wrong with those guys and their grips? Damn. He reeked of cigarettes, alcohol and faintly of cologne.

"Toni, leave the kid alone. Can't you see you scared him with your nasty attitude? **Scheisse, **Toni, that's so unawesome!" a husky angered voice interrupted as the owner joined the conversation. It was the pale guy with sunglasses on and he was apparently pissed off.

"Fuck you, Gil," said Toni replied bitterly as he released me and threw a glare in my direction. The Gil-person wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as he grinded his hips in a vulgar manner. "Oh, never mind, I don't like them willing," he added and he went to sit on the stairs like nothing happened. Well, of course, not without giving me another deadly glare before. Apparently, something very funny had happened for they all started laughing...for what reason, I don't know.

"Anyway," the bluenette started after calming down a bit," I'm Alfred Jones and this idiot wearing glasses on a rainy day is Gilbert Beilschmidt, the almost blonde one is Vladimir Lupei and the annoyed guy with curls is Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. Now, we gotta sit down," he said grabbing my wrist.

"Wait, wait, wait! Just wait a little! I didn't agree with any of this! I don't know you and therefore I don't trust you!" I almost yelled trying to break free from his tight grip. The only reaction I got out of him was a shit-eating grin. I scowled.

"If you don't spend time with us, you'll never know us," I rolled my eyes.

"Why, thank you, Captain Obvious, I would have never guessed," I snapped and he frowned. Was he dumb or something?

"Awww, man, don't be cruel! Just spend some time with us. We ain't gonna harm ya, I swear. No drugs, acohol or other funny stuff for your tight British ass. We won't get ya in trouble. All I'm asking of you is to spend some time with us," I arched an eyebrow at him. "Look, if you want you won't even have to tell us your real name. We won't ask for your phone number or address. We'll never see each other again. But hang out with us _**today**_." He threw me a pleading look and I sighed. Why did I have the slight suspicion that I was going to agree with this fool's plan? Oh well, because it sounded _tempting. _"We won't steal from you either!" he added like he was some guy working at a commercial and this was some amazing bonus. I shook my head in disapproval.

_"Fine. I'll hang out with you, gits. But only for today."_


End file.
